Finding Alice
by CminorAdagio
Summary: What if Harry and Ruth met in a different time, at a different age and in a very different way? Does one coincidental meeting change the fate and entwine the lives of two people forever? Spanning the late 1920s through to and beyond WWII. Very AU and different from other Spooks stories and the actual series.
1. Chapter 1

Never fear - All We Were and All We Are is still going strong, and the next chapter of that shall be going up very shortly. I needed something new to get me back into the writing spirit though and this seems to have done the trick. It popped into my head in the summer and try as I might I haven't been able to get it out of my head. It's a little bit different from other spooks stories and don't worry - if people don't like it I'll delete it and forget I ever thought of it. An epic love story with a different time period, a different look at MI5, with some characters and twists from the actual series mixed in later on. I'm a history nerd, it has to be said, and therefore I decided to write this as an historical romance/drama with spooksy stuff mixed in for good measure. Anyway, like I said, I hope you like this. If not... it's gone, don't worry. Please review to let me know what you think :)

"Where's James when you need him?" Miles panted as he and his younger colleague streaked down the dirty, slum-like alleyways, flee-bitten cats and children alike scattering in order to get out of their way. At forty-one years of age, he was surely getting too old for running down back alleyways after considerably younger men, who were however, intent on removing their country's intelligence and gaining it for their own means. He had been chasing the O'Callaghan brothers for nearly five years and there was absolutely no way he was going to stop now, just when their operation had cornered them so perfectly. Unfortunately, his other, also younger colleague, James had been late leaving the base and thus, they were having to apprehend the two intelligence-stealing brothers on foot, with virtually no ammunition left at all. Surely the advantage of living in 1927 with new technologies at their fingertips, as opposed to the dark ages with nothing at all, meant that the British Intelligence Services could at least afford one car that could lead a colleague to get to a specific place at the correct time. Apparently not, because James had not turned up with the Ford when the chase had eventually ensued and now all those years of careful planning were flooding down the drain.

His other young colleague, Harry, a moderately new recruit fresh from the heights of Oxford University, and a year in the armed forces, was clearly a lot fitter than he was, but then he was only twenty- three. He was running with such concentrated determination in his eyes that it only made Miles try all the harder to keep up. Although he would never say it to Harry's face, because it was never good to create cockiness within new recruits as that would lead to complacency, Miles thought Harry had a lot of potential. Unlike his fellow junior officer, James, who was laidback and often lazy, Harry always seemed to have that same spark of moral determination he himself had had when he first joined the service. Now was just an example of this work ethic; here was Harry, running across the filthy backstreets of London at a half-past eight in the morning to apprehend two dangerous young men, who had stolen information to which it was vital should never be let out of the country. And James Davies had only just bothered to get out of bed. Miles was going to be having serious words with their Section Head, Frank, when they returned to base, but for now he kept going.

"How many rounds have you got left?" he questioned Harry as they continued running, Tommy O'Callaghan still within their sights; presumably Jimmy, the older and more assertive brother was further on ahead.

Harry checked, dodging past more young children, who for some reason, seemed to congregate in the back yards of old, derelict houses. Were these the standards young people were falling to these days? "Not many." He answered back, before clicking his revolver back into place, maintaining his running speed.

"Did you see if they were both armed?" Miles panted, knocking aside a rude adolescent who stood in his path and sneered 'toff' in his face.

"Jimmy is." Harry replied, keeping his eye firmly on Tommy, who was apparently tiring, his running pace slowing slightly.

"I think Tommy's run out of ammunition." Miles called back. "He couldn't seem able to fire in return to me back there."

"So what do you suggest?" Harry asked quickly.

"If we take down Tommy," Miles suggested. "Then older brother will come running."

"Take him down as in… kill him?" Harry questioned.

"No," Miles told him firmly. "Jimmy's the dominant brother – he's the one controlling Tommy. With the right techniques, Tommy could be a useful informant within the Republican Army; if only we can separate him from his brother's influence."

"Right." Harry agreed, trying to think of a way of reaching Tommy. Although the eighteen year-old was slowing down, he was still ahead, and after running such a long distance, even Harry had to admit that he was tiring. A few paces away he saw a small boy kicking a miserably muddy football around in the dirt, and he suddenly had an idea. He jogged towards the boy, tackled the football away from the child who immediately began to protest and cry, and aiming carefully, he kicked it in he direction of Tommy O'Callaghan. A few seconds later, the football landed with a thump on top of Tommy's head; the youngster fell to the ground, unconscious, but alive.

Miles gave a small chuckle amongst his panting breaths, "Good work." He praised his young colleague.

Harry shrugged, only a little bit proud of himself, but knowing that the job was not over yet, "University football captain."

With that, the two of them ran over to where Tommy was now stirring on the ground, attempting to sit up.

"If I were you, I'd remain quite still." Miles said authoritatively, but gently, seeing that the youngster's eyes were not yet focusing properly.

As the older man bent below him, and checked the now large lump on the boy's head, Tommy muttered in his thick Dublin accent, "I've got no choice have I? You've come to arrest me."

"Wrong authorities." Miles said, smiling kindly. "We're the intelligence services, not the police."

"Same thing." Tommy hissed back viciously. Apparently, his older brother had made quite an impression on his opinions of the English.

"Afraid not," Miles said gently. "We can cause far more damage; that is why I'm suggesting – only suggesting, not ordering – that you keep still. At least until you can sit up properly."

Harry surveyed Miles carefully, as he bent over the younger man, who looked both bewildered and suspicious at the older man's kindness. This was what Harry admired so much about his senior mentor; the older man was absolutely dedicated and serious to what he did, and he always treated everyone, even the most dangerous of terrorists or criminals with fair, kind, respect. In effect, it was killing them with kindness, but Harry had begun to realise that a lot of the time, it really worked. Of course, this same technique would not work on someone as fixated on the freedom of their republic as Jimmy O'Callaghan, but already, Tommy was looking fit for grooming. So in a way, Harry could describe Miles as gentle, but deadly.

"Do you think you can stand up now?" Miles asked young Tommy calmly.

The eighteen year old looked back at him cautiously, with more fear than he ever would have done had Miles been yelling abuse at him. That would only create determined defiance. "Why aren't you shouting? Why are you being nice? Stop being nice." He almost ordered the older man, who stared back at him levelly. "What are you going to do to me?" he asked desperately.

"Nothing." Miles promised the youngster.

"If you help us." Harry added.

"I won't do anything to help you English scum." Tommy refused, spitting on the ground to emphasise his point.

"Is that what your brother says Tommy?" Miles asked him carefully, and the young man's eyes widened in shock and fear, telling them just how close to the truth they were.

"You leave my brother alone." He muttered angrily.

"Why do you still protect your brother Tommy, even when he's abandoned you?" Harry asked, joining in the interrogation, although still following Miles' lead.

"He's not abandoned me!" Tommy shouted aggressively, coughing slightly. From the way he was panting and from the amount of phlegm in his cough, Harry could tell that the young man was a chain smoker – cigarettes, not cigars. A family as poor as the O'Callaghan's could not afford the luxury of proper cigars. Harry had never indulged in the habit; he had heard some doctors say it cleared the air passages and helped you breathe, but he rather thought the opposite. Miles also agreed with him, and did not smoke either, but both always carried around a packet of cigarettes just in case. Harry knew that this would prove useful now; with the state that Tommy was in, he would do anything for a cigarette; he would give his allegiance to anyone. He noted the twitching of Tommy's forefinger and middle finger, as if they were itching for a cigarette, but the youngster did not reach for one, clearly because he did not have any left.

"Would you like a cigarette Miles?" Harry asked his mentor casually, reaching into his blazer pocket and withdrawing a large pack of cigarettes. At the mere mention of the word, he saw Tommy's eyes revert to his hand; his lips twitching longingly.

"Not at the moment Harry," he shook his head, carefully, knowing what his younger colleague was doing. "But Tommy might like one. Tommy, would you like a cigarette?"

Both men could see that the youth so desperately wanted one, but found his loyalty torn between his own compulsive needs, and his brother's extremist opinions. "N… no!" He eventually said, although the desperation in his voice was clearly audible. "No, I can't… I mean… I don't… not from you."

Harry shrugged, taking his time in taking a cigarette out of the box, and lighting it with a match, before replacing the pack back into his pocket. This seemed to be too much for Tommy, who stammered: "W… wait… w… what do I have to give you in return?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked innocently, the cigarette halfway to his mouth.

"The cig." Tommy muttered, his voice rising in pitch as he grew more frustrated. "What do I have to do for a cig?"

"Nothing." Miles told him calmly. "Have a cigarette if you want one. Harry doesn't mind, do you Harry?"

"Not at all." Harry replied gallantly, reaching out to give Tommy the cigarette.

Tommy's hand reached forwards automatically to snatch the precious thing, but before he could, Harry withdrew his hand slightly, and Miles added: "Although, we would like to know where that intelligence is… you know… the information on the latest addition to the British Armed Forces that you and your brother stole from service records."

"I… I knew there was something I'd have to do in return." Tommy growled, frustrated, thumping the ground with his hand like a little child having a tantrum.

"Is that a no then?" Harry asked, withdrawing his hand entirely, and bringing the cigarette up towards his mouth again.

Tommy watched the smoking comfort go again and debated with himself what to do, his fingers and lips twitching all at once this time. "Wait." He said desperately. "I… I didn't say that. I mean… Jimmy has the papers… he said he'd go on ahead and come back for me."

"Except he hasn't has he?" Harry noted grimly.

"He will." Tommy told them desperately. "I know he will. He wouldn't leave me. He said."

"Then you won't mind us searching you then?" Harry asked scathingly.

"What?" Tommy asked, alarmed. "W… What for?"

"Just to check that you haven't got any papers on you Tommy," Miles said gently. "Even if you have, you get the cigarette – it's a win-win situation, isn't it?"

Not looking as if he entirely agreed with this, Tommy O'Callaghan stood up slowly and allowed himself to be searched thoroughly; much to Miles and Harry's disappointment however, they found no trace of the missing documents, and they realised that Tommy must have been telling the truth after all. Following this though, Harry handed over the cigarette fairly, and Tommy took a long drag of it, his face finally relaxing.

They stood there, keeping a reassuring hold on Tommy for good measure, but the young man made no attempt to run. After he finished one cigarette, to the keep him calm and placated, Harry handed him another, and slowly young Tommy became a little more comfortable, informing them how he and his brother got into the document room back at the base in the first place – through a small tunnel, informed to them by a Republican army technician, leading underground and into the records room via the ventilation system. It was a frighteningly simple security measure that had been overlooked and Miles made a note to question Frank about this as soon as possible.

They had been standing there for a whole until they saw a figure creep forward from the shadows of the back alley, a shape remarkably similar Jimmy O'Callaghan. Both Harry and Miles prepared themselves for another chase or shootout, but instead Jimmy directed his shouts towards Tommy. Seeing him smoking a cigarette with the other two men obviously led Jimmy to putting two and two together.

"You little treacherous bastard!" he yelled furiously, cocking his gun. "You lying, deceitful little-"

At that moment however, a T-Ford came screeching around a bend, jittering down a little side road, leading towards the alley. A few seconds later, the car came to a halt and out jumped the absent James, who started towards the two O'Callaghan brothers, his revolver raised in readiness.

Tommy looked so frightened now that he jerked his arm out of Miles' hold and began to run the opposite way, away from both James _and_ Jimmy. "You said…" He accused Miles and Harry, dropping his cigarette and turning to run. "You said you wouldn't let anything happen to me… you…"

With that, he turned to run, however James' trigger finger was too quick, and without assessing the situation carefully as either Miles or Harry might have done, he impulsively fired a shot at Tommy, just as Miles bellowed at him: "James NO!"

There was a split second of shocked silence before all hell broke loose, in which young Tommy fell to the ground, a bullet in his back, eyes wide open; this time, unmistakably dead. Jimmy let out a scream of agony in reaction to the murder of his brother, as if it had been he who had been shot, and he raised his gun towards James. This time, the young intelligence officer was not quick enough and he looked round just in time to see a bullet flying towards his head. Miles and Harry looked on in devastation as their colleague fell, almost in slow motion to the ground, yet it was so quick they barely knew what was happening. And suddenly they were surrounded by two bodies within the space of a few seconds, and they were now being fired at by a particularly angry Irishman, but first and foremost, a grieving brother. He howled like a wounded dog as Miles and Harry scrambled for cover behind the T-Ford, occasionally letting out what remaining rounds they had left. Eventually, Miles got lucky and he fired a round which sank into Jimmy's ankle, causing the younger man to fall to the ground in pain, his gun sliding helplessly from his hand. Miles and Harry hastily clambered out from behind the car and ran towards Jimmy, disarming him thoroughly, and recovering the missing documents which were still hidden within his blazer pocket.

But they felt numb; Harry in particular. He had never seen a man die before; he had never witnessed the light and life leave someone's eyes and suddenly, he had just seen two potentially very good men die, all in a mere few seconds. Miles handed him the recovered documents and busied himself with restraining a very angry Jimmy, who was hurling insults vehemently at the older man all the while, tears streaming down his pale face.

"The bastard – it served him right! The murderer! The BASTARD!" his eyes turned on Miles, who tied his wrists together with thick metal cuffs, police custom, but often necessary. "YOU! You were in charge! I'm blaming you for this! I'm blaming you! It's all your fault Tommy's dead! You're going to never forget this, I promise you! You'll pay! I'll get out and I'll come after you and your family, I swear!"

The man was absolutely furious and perhaps rightfully so. What had James been thinking as he raised that gun? Had he really misjudged the situation so badly? But then, Harry turned to stare in shock at the body of the colleague whom he had worked with for only six months. Unlike Tommy whose eyes were still open and wide in shock as his body lay pale and still in the muck and dirt, James' eyes were closed; he looked like he was sleeping and that at least, was something. James had made a mistake and had paid for it with his life. Tommy too, a young man, just a child really, had died because of the screwed-up world they lived in; extremist political beliefs. And Harry could now see why Frank and Miles always looked so weary; they had been in the job far longer than he had; they had clearly seen people die, and as he looked to Miles to see how he should be reacting, he saw only closed off emotions. Harry could read nothing in his mentors face; only impassiveness as he held a flailing, furious, swearing Jimmy down. Suddenly the older man said quietly to Harry:

"Go back to base; tell Frank what's happened and tell him to bring a prisoner van, and an ambulance."

Harry stared back numbly, wanting to ask why they needed an ambulance when no one was hurt; only dead, but he did not have the energy.

"And tell someone to contact James' parents and girlfriend. Make sure the ambulance staff treat Tommy and James with care and respect."

Harry registered how Miles continued to use the names of the deceased rather than refer to them as bodies. Had he not been feeling so numb in that moment then he might have felt increased respect for the older man, but instead he just turned on his heel, avoiding the still form of James as best he could, and climbed into the Ford. As he started up the engine, and pulled out of the alley, Harry felt a tear trickling down his cheek, but remembering the impassive, unreadable expression on Miles' face, he swiped it away angrily, forcing his expression to be more neutral.

* * *

Harry sat at his station back at the office, staring at the desk next to his; the desk which until a few hours ago, had belonged to James Davies, a twenty-six year old man from Birmingham; a man who had loved courting his girlfriend, Anne-Marie, and liked three sugar cubes in his tea. And now he was just another statistic on an apparently very long death list belonging to MI5. Both Harry's parents were dead; they had died one after the other when he was nineteen, but he had never seen their bodies. His uncle had only deigned to contact him about the funeral three days after it had happened, but Harry had returned from university anyway to pay his respects. But he had never seen a dead person before, let alone a dead colleague. James had been only three years older than himself but had teased him about being the 'baby' of the office. Harry had barely known the man, and yet his death seemed to be having such a numbing, profound effect on him. He just kept seeing his body fall down to the ground in slow motion, his eyes lolling before they closed entirely.

He had returned to base and carried out Miles' orders, but he had been shaking so badly that Frank had told him to stay and take the documents back to the records office, followed by writing a report on the security breach the building had. But Harry had barely written eight lines and he just sat there, his hand brushing absently up and down the typewriter in front of him. He looked up suddenly as he saw Miles come through the heavy oak door, looking more tired and weary than he had ever seen him. At first, he thought the older man was going to disregard him completely, as he seemed to be heading the direction of Frank's office, which was more a sort of alcove in the wall. However, once he reached Harry's desk, Miles stopped and turned to look at his young colleague.

"You did well today." Miles appraised him, his eyes full of respect. He had seen how Harry had reacted after Tommy and James had been shot, and knew how the first reaction to death felt. He had experienced the same numbing sensation after he had first watched a man die. Unfortunately, you seemed unable to get through this job without seeing at least one man die before your eyes. It was just the way the dice rolled. It also seemed to effect those who had been fast-tracked through university and the army and into a job as high-powered as this, the worst.

Harry shrugged, "I suppose I should say thank you but…" his voice trailed off, and Miles nodded in agreement.

"I know. Believe me." He said firmly, and surprisingly, he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "You will do well Harry." He said wisely. "If you can get through today and still be able to get up in the morning and do this job, then you are already past the hard part."

Harry nodded gratefully in reply. Miles was about to brush past him towards Frank's 'office', when the man himself emerged from the alcove, starting towards them. Frank Longford was known throughout the service as one of the longest serving intelligence officers of their day. He had been around when the department had first been built, and when MI5 had first been formed. He was in his late fifties, strong-willed, grey-haired, spectacled and weary; spoke very much like one of the aristocracy and yet it was debateable whether he belonged to that generation. His morals often clashed with the wishes of the armed forces and many within the government, however he seemed simply too good and popular to remove from position. It was undisputable that the work he and his department had done since the end of the last war had been remarkable. The fairness with which he worked made he and Miles very good friends, and so suddenly, Harry felt like he was intruding on a private conversation.

"Has Jimmy O'Callaghan been dealt with?" he asked Miles quietly, coming over to stand next to Harry's desk.

Miles sighed, "He did not go down without a fight. He yelled that he holds me personally responsible for his brother's death and he swore blind that he was going to come after me and my family."

"There's nothing in it." Frank replied instantly, a grave expression on his face, also sorry for the death of James. "He's just trying to make a lot of fuss as he goes down. Once we've got all we can out of him, he'll either go to a high security holding centre, or be hung."

"Isn't hanging a bit drastic?" Miles asked, as fair as ever.

"He killed James." Harry said mechanically, quite forgetting he had not been invited to participate in the conversation. "An eye for eye."

Both Frank and Miles looked down at him in surprise, especially Frank, who had never heard such strong opinions from a junior officer. Miles replied patiently, "The way Jimmy O'Callaghan sees it, James murdered Tommy so that was an eye for an eye."

"So James deserved to die?" Harry questioned, frowning. "Is it all just a balance sheet?"

"No of course not," Miles answered, still patient with his protégé, whilst Frank looked on, baffled. "James was a good man, and we will not forget him."

"But we move on." Frank continued, wondering since when it was his job to mentor questioning employees. "When there are no longer things to do, and information to sort, and chaos to apprehend, then there is a time to grieve." He turned towards Miles. "You need to be debriefed, but that can wait until tomorrow. I think you're late?"

Miles suddenly cursed and consulted his watch, before nodding in thanks at Frank and turning back towards the large, heavy oak door. Frank returned to his alcove, and Harry frowned. Everyday weekday at around four o'clock, Miles left work in a hurry and Harry could never work out why.

"Miles!" Harry said, deciding to ask him, and Miles briefly returned to where Harry sat, his eyebrows raised in a question, but telling him to hurry up with it. "Why do you always leave at this time… so early I mean?"

"I have a daughter," Miles replied, almost as if it was obvious, smiling at the mere thought of his precious little child. "I have to collect her from school," he sighed as he checked his watch. "Or rather, I'm late to collect her from school."

"I didn't know you were married." Harry said, looking automatically towards Miles' ring finger, seeing that there was no ring present.

Miles smiled sadly, "I'm… I'm not. My wife, Alice… she died a few years ago."

Harry opened his mouth but no sound came out. He wanted to ask him how this came to be so, and how he had only just realised Miles had a family, but felt this might be insensitive. Besides, with one final smile to announce his departure, Miles Evershed turned around and left through the door, Harry staring behind him in wonder.

* * *

Miles hurried through the school gates, passing Joe, the old school caretaker, sweeping the yard with a battered, balding wooden broom. Old Joe did not even bother to look up as the younger man overtook him, apparently having witnessed this process many times. Aside from the old caretaker however, the school building seemed completely deserted. This was not surprising as school hours ended at a half past three, and it was now twenty-three minutes past four. As he approached the classroom in which his daughter always sat in to wait for him, he realised again that this would have to stop. Ever since his little Ruth had started school, he could not recall a time he had been on time to collect her. This never really seemed to bother Ruth herself, as she would simply sit there happily reading, but it often caused dispute with her large, over-strict teacher, Mrs Andrea Hampton. Miles could work of the security services all he liked, and face dangerous criminals on a daily basis, but it did not prepare him for the wrath each weekday of Mrs Hampton. He could see that today was going to be no different as he entered the classroom.

As usual, Ruth sat at the back of the classroom in her little black coat and hat, her head in her hands as her eyes followed the lines of her latest reading book. She looked up hopefully as she heard the wooden door creak open and as per routine, she jumped up joyfully from her seat and ran into her father's arms: "Daddy!

Especially after today's tragedy, Miles had never been so glad to scoop his daughter up into his arms and hold her close, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. Everyday, Ruth looked increasingly like her mother, from her shoulder-length mousy brown hair, to her stunningly bright blue eyes, to her gentle, kindly face. Like Alice, Ruth rarely had a bad word to say about anybody, and perhaps that and her quiet intelligence were the most beautiful features of all. After a minute or so, Miles released her slightly, looking back into her bright, smiling face. It only made him feel all the more guilty. Ruth absolutely adored him, and he knew it. Yet all he ever seemed to do was let her down; he was always late to deliver her and collect her from school, he always forgot to make her a lunch to take with her – she always ended up doing this task herself, and once he had accidentally left her alone in a bookshop, quite forgetting that she had been there. It was only when he had almost reached home that he remembered she had come along with him, and he had run all the way back to the shop, only to discover her curled up in a chair, reading the same book as she had been when he left. For some reason, Mrs Hampton always seemed to notice and play on his guilt, and he could tell she was going to do the same today. She approached them slowly, her low heels clicking against the dull stone floor, and she sucked her teeth in disapproval.

"Is there something you would like to say Mrs Hampton?" Miles questioned her mild-manneredly, but a hint of a reproach in his voice.

"There are many things I would like to say Mr Evershed," Mrs Hampton replied, folding her arms across her chest to emphasise her self-importance. "But none of them in front of the student."

Miles sighed, knowing he was going to hear some more about his appalling abilities as a parent, and so he set Ruth down gently.

"Go and pack up your books, my love. Mrs Hampton and I are just going to have a talk over here." He told her, nodding towards the far corner of the room. Ruth looked perhaps a little cautiously at Mrs Hampton, as if suspecting she was getting at her father again, before nodding obediently and returning to her desk to pack her books back into her satchel. Mrs Hampton followed Miles over to the far corner and once she was sure Ruth was out of earshot she said sternly:

"I need to talk to you about Ruth."

"Don't you always?" Miles asked, raising his eyebrows. "I'd be a little concerned if you started talking to me about another child."

"Mr Evershed!" Mrs Hampton hissed, apparently shocked. "I do not take kindly to your complacent, mocking behaviour. This is a very serious situation."

Miles, who had been entirely straight-faced the entire time, straightened it further. He was not really in the mood after today to listen to this pompous, self-indulgent woman, but as he did at work, he told himself to be fair and patient. So he nodded politely, "I'm sorry Mrs Hampton. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Once the teacher looked suitably satisfied by his apology, she said frostily, "Today we had a class discussion on what the children's parents do for a living, and what the children in turn would like to be when they are older."

Miles was beginning to see where this conversation was going but he prompted her anyway, "And?"

"All the other girls were quite sensible – they said things like: their mother is housewife, their father works at the bank and they would like to have children and start a family." She fixed her beady stare on him, sucking her teeth again in disapproval. "Ruth said quite bluntly that her mother is dead, she does not know what you do for a living and that she would like to work somewhere to make a difference."

Miles opened his mouth, not in shock, but in overwhelming pride. He looked towards his little girl who was now fastening the straining buckles on her overloaded satchel, completely oblivious to the current conversation. Apparently Mrs Hampton had other opinions of this and she stared at him, expecting a verbal reaction. She got it.

"And?" he asked her.

Mrs Hampton looked most put out. "Mr Evershed, perhaps you do not realise the seriousness of this matter. Your daughter does not know what you do for a living… now clearly there is an extreme lack in communication between father and daughter here."

"On the contrary Mrs Hampton," Miles said, beginning to lose his patience now, something which was very rarely seen. Only if someone insulted his family life would he become defensive. "Ruth and I are extremely close. _She_ is _my_ little girl, and _I_ am her father. What more is there to say?"

Mrs Hampton now looked equally angry, hissing, "Mr Evershed, I do not know what it is you exactly do for a living, but I suspect it is some pompous work for the government. That is fine by me sir, but I am concerned that you are giving your daughter delusions of grandeur."

"How so?" Miles questioned in a deadly quiet tone. By now, even Ruth had finished her task and was observing the quiet argument between her teacher and her father with cautious eyes.

"As a man yourself, I would have thought you of all people would be the one to tell Ruth that it is just not a woman's world," Mrs Hampton replied, shaking her head annoyingly. "The men get the important jobs – the women get the secondary jobs, if any at all. For her to 'work and make a difference' would, as you must realise, be quite impossible." She started laughing to emphasise her point. Neither of the two adults noticed a sad look flit across Ruth's face, and she looked down at her feet in disappointment.

Miles however simply inflicted a rare glare on the teacher before him. Pompous 'concern' for a child was one thing, but sheer cruelty was another, "And what do you suggest I do Mrs Hampton?" he asked her coldly. "Tell my _six-year-old_ daughter to stop reading because all she can hope for is the life of a housewife. That is quite hypocritical isn't it, coming from you being a teacher? A _teacher _of all professions? An academic?" Mrs Hampton's face contorted sourly, as if she were sucking a sherbet lemon. She clearly did not take kindly to being spoken to in this way, but Miles Evershed had always seemed to be a man ahead of his time, full of exaggerated ideas of fairness and equality, and Andrea Hampton was quite sure that one day it would kill him. "Surely you should be encouraging the girl, not putting her down."

"Mr Evershed," Mrs Hampton said, backtracking. "I am not saying that Ruth should stop studying. Even I must admit that she is the brightest pupil, girl or not, I have ever taught. I am simply saying that she should be told the cold truth of life now rather than later."

"I know she's bright." Miles nodded, determined to defend his daughter's rights to the end, just as Alice would have done. "So therefore Mrs Hampton, I will not be doing anything to discourage her."

"But surely you realise that with Ruth having her head in a book all day means that she is just not associating with the other children. She will be bullied." Mrs Hampton said, desperate now to justify herself in the face of an angry Miles Evershed.

However, Miles had now had enough, and turned away from her, saying curtly, "Excuse me Mrs Hampton, it's getting late and I must take Ruth home now. I'll see you tomorrow, same time I'm sure."

Ruth looked up and took that as her cue to leave, and she hurried towards her father, who took her by the hand and led her out of the room. They were stopped short at the corridor as Mrs Hampton called, "No you won't Mr Evershed. The trade unions are using the school as a meeting place tomorrow."

"What?" Miles asked, quite forgetting his anger in his surprise.

Mrs Hampton only shrugged, "If you and Ruth communicated as well as you claim to, then you'd have known that." With that last infuriating comment, she floated, witch-like back into the classroom.

Miles might have said something he would have regretted later when he felt a tug on his arm and he looked down into his daughter's face. "Leave it daddy," she smiled softly, squeezing his hand gently. "Can we go home?"

Miles looked down at his beautiful daughter and felt his heart fill with love for her. "Yes, we can." They turned to walk back down the corridor, stopping briefly so that Miles could take Ruth's overflowing satchel of books before he said quietly to his daughter, "Sweetheart, do you really want to know what I do?"

"I know what you do." Ruth said softly, making Miles look down at her in surprise. "You work for the govern… ment… don't you?" she asked, looking up at him for assurance. Miles looked at his daughter and wondered just when she got so clever; he was surer than anyone that if Ruth wanted to make a difference, then she would.

"Yes," he nodded, smiling down at her. "But why didn't you say that to the class to avoid getting into trouble?"

Ruth looked up at him as if it was obvious, "Because I thought it was supposed to be a secret. And a secret means you don't tell."

Miles smiled in wonder at her, and could not help but think that she would make a perfect candidate for the intelligence services. Should the world change, and they allowed women to work properly in MI5, he would perhaps have suggested she joined. She would certainly make a difference then. But as her father, Miles knew that for as long as he lived, he would always protect her and that meant keeping her as far away from his work as possible. He sighed; having just thought that, if he could not get old Mrs McDonald next door to look after Ruth tomorrow, then she would simply _have _to come to the office with him, or as it was commonly called, 'the grid', because of its windowless, square shape. He knew Frank would not be happy about that, especially since he still had to be debriefed. However after today, Miles was quite sure that he could trust Harry implicitly. If there was no other option, perhaps he would look after Ruth for a small amount of time tomorrow…

**The meeting is aligned. What do you think? Like it? Hate it? If the general consensus is that people hate it then I'll take the story down. I am aware it's a bit different. Anyway, next chapter of All We Were and All We Are will be up very soon. Please tell me what you think and review. Thank you :)**


	2. A Fateful Meeting

**Okay, first of all, thank you so much to everybody who reviewed and let me know their opinions. They were all really valuable and I've tried to incorporate them in some way. Some of the reviews were mixed - some thought the age gap between Harry and Ruth was a little creepy. Please note that I am writing it with artistic license and in real life, there is a 16-17 year age gap between the actors of Harry and Ruth; since they did not elaborate on the exact gap in the actual show - I have taken this as my starting point. Thus, Ruth is 6 and Harry is 23, but don't worry - there are going to be quite a few skips in time, so Ruth will be older/adult before she and Harry develop things romantically. So for this chapter, they are just intrigued by each other - like kindred spirits if you like. As you may have guessed, this story is from a new AU angle and also contains features from the pre-war/WW2 period such as the belief thaat women are inferior etc. All We Were and All We Are still on the way and will be up within the next day or so. Please review this and let me know what you think :)**

Ruth held tight to her father's hand as he jogged relatively quickly up the steps of the large, white stone building, where he presumably worked. He was going at such a fast pace that she had to practically run to keep up, almost dropping the book which she had tucked smartly underneath her right arm, several times. Once Miles realised that his daughter was lagging behind, he seemed to slow down somewhat, withdrawing his hand from Ruth's and instead inserted it around her shoulders, guiding her through the throng of men in the large white marble corridors.

Ruth had never seen a building as magnificent. The roof seemed to be so high up that you could have fit a thousand people her size in the gap, to the floor; the large marble pillars and floors were quite immaculate, shining so wonderfully that she could practically see her outline reflected there as she walked. As she carried out her sightseeing, Ruth took a good look at the people they passed. Unlike her father, they all looked very serious, no-nonsense, scary men, wearing tight-fitting suits, waistcoats and top or bowler hats; some sported spectacles on the ends of their noses, making them look very intelligent indeed. Ruth could not help but notice as she passed these men, that many of them seemed to frown at her, even tut as they saw her pass, muttering something incomprehensible to the person next to them. She looked up at her father, but he kept his head held high and his arm tight around her shoulders, directing her through the busy crowds. Ruth wanted to ask why she could not see any women at all, even ones as strict as Mrs Hampton, but she suspected from the serious look on her father's face that now was not the time.

She kept quiet for the duration of their walk, eagerly taking in the scenery as they climbed long winding, varnished wooden or marble staircases, trotted along narrow, darkened corridors, until finally they apparently reached their destination. Miles released his hand from around her shoulders as they came face too face with a large oak door, and turned the heavy-looking brass doorknob. The door slowly opened, allowing them access to the room inside, and Miles gently shunted Ruth and himself through before allowing it to swing shut behind them. Ruth however barely noticed, staring in awe at the sight before her. Rows of wooden desks stood firmly in the centre of the room, which were occupied by men of all ages, shapes and sizes, some concentrating hard on large stacks of documents, and others typing so fast on typewriters that it almost made her dizzy. Masses of filing cabinets covered the internal walls, at which more men stood, discussing baffling subjects quite loudly and dominantly. Ruth was taking in so much around her that she barely noticed a tall, greying-haired, middle-aged man with spectacles at the end of his nose, retreat from a small, door-less alcove at the back of the room, striding towards her and Miles. When she did, she stepped back automatically in shock and fear, almost hiding behind her father, who squeezed her shoulders gently in reassurance.

"Miles," the authoritative-looking man said sharply as he finally reached them. "I was not aware that the security services had taken a sideways career move into becoming a crèche."

"I know," Her father sighed, still keeping a firm grip on Ruth's shoulders, especially as the spectacled man stared down in disapproval at her. "I'm sorry Frank, but Ruth's school is closed today for the trade unions. I tried to get a neighbour to look after her but it was short notice and-"

"In my office now." The man replied seriously, though fortunately he sounded more tired than cross, or at least, that's what Ruth thought. Miles pushed Ruth forwards slightly, starting towards the small alcove from whence his boss came, but he stopped abruptly when the older man muttered, "Preferably without the child."

Ruth did not entirely understand what was going on, or why both her father and the older man looked so tired and serious, but she did know from the way the grip on her shoulders relaxed that she was going to be left on her own in this strange new place. She glanced up at Miles in fear:

"Daddy, don't go." She begged him softly, trying to keep her voice as quiet as possible so that the new man could not hear. Miles smiled gently at her and whispered back:

"I won't be gone for long my love – I'm just going to speak to this man here because it's very important," he said gesturing up to the man above them, who was looking surprisingly patient as he waited. With that, Miles looked up and around him, his eyes finally settling on something, or rather someone at the other end of the room.

"Harry!" he called, beckoning him over.

Ruth turned to see a young man in his early twenties, with a thin layer of curly blonde hair covering his face, and strikingly hazel eyes, manoeuvring his way across the packed room towards them, a stack of files in hand. Ruth thought that unlike the rest of the people she had seen so far, this man had a different look about him; he looked kindly and gentle, and as though given the right time, he could be a lot of fun to be around, but at that moment, he also looked as sad as the rest.

"Yes Miles?" the young man who was apparently called Harry asked. "What can I do for y-" He faltered and stopped mid-sentence as he saw Ruth standing beside her father.

"Harry," Her father said quickly. "I need you to take care of my daughter for a few minutes whilst I talk to Frank."

The young man opened his mouth initially in surprise, then confusion and finally in protest, "Wait… Miles… I… I don't know how to take of a child-" However, by the time Harry had even voiced his protests, Miles had followed Frank over to the small alcove in the corner, leaving Ruth standing there, rather dumbly, not exactly too happy at being left alone with a stranger either. For a few seconds, the pair stood there sizing each other up, before Ruth dropped her head shyly and clasped the book tightly to her chest. She did not notice the young man smile softly at this endearing feature, and only heard his hesitant question:

"Would you… like a drink of something?"

Ruth raised her head slightly so that she was staring at this man's surprisingly shiny black, immaculate-looking shoes, but still did not look up entirely, "My daddy said you should never take food or drink from strangers."

"Right," the man said, nodding awkwardly. "Your daddy's probably right."

* * *

"Take a seat." Frank said, offering Miles a small wooden chair at the opposite end of his equally undersized desk. Miles nodded in gratefully and accepted the seat, sinking down into it tiredly. "You look how I feel." The older man said, smiling grimly at Miles, who could not exactly raise the energy to smile back. It had taken all of the willpower he possessed to behave normally around Ruth the previous night; to be reasonably cheerful over tea, tuck her up in bed and read to her and so on. That was the down side to being a single father in this line of work – you came out completely drained from a days work and still you had to give more at the end of it. But Miles knew as he checked up on his daughter who was still staring slightly apprehensively at Harry, that he would not change that for the world. If he hadn't had Ruth when he lost Alice, then he did not think he would have been able to go on. She was happy-go-lucky, bright and beautiful – he could only hope that attitude lasted for a few more years at least.

"Do you think it was an exceptionally bright idea to leave your daughter in the hands of Harry Pearce?" Frank questioned him, although unlike Mrs Hampton the previous day, Miles could tell that his boss meant well.

Miles smiled as he witnessed Harry stretch out his hand as if in greeting to Ruth. It was blatantly clear the young man had absolutely no idea how to treat a child, but he was responsible, reliable and trustworthy, and that was what mattered. "Harry had my back the entire time yesterday," Miles shrugged, turning back to face his friend and boss. "I'm not sure I would be alive today had it not been for him. He was brilliant." He surveyed Frank, slightly reproachfully. "I think you're a little hard on him sometimes, just because he's new and fresh from university."

"You think we can expect great things from him?" Frank asked, genuinely interested in what his friend thought. He had learnt to trust Miles' judgement in the years he had worked with him, and he was confident that if Miles thought Harry was worth something, then surely he was.

Miles shrugged, "Many young people his age join the service to try and get some status to their name, or money, or power-"

"Or because we force them into it." Frank interjected quietly, although there was a twinkle in his eye.

Miles smiled in return, "That too. But no… I don't think Harry joined because of any of those things. I think he genuinely…" He was searching for the right words when Mrs Hampton's voice suddenly floated back to him; the description of Ruth's words in class the day before, and he smiled. "I think he genuinely wants to make a difference."

Frank leaned back slightly, studying the young man outside, who had gently coaxed Miles' young daughter into holding his hand, and was leading her across the room slowly. "We haven't had anyone join who 'genuinely wants to make a difference' since the Great War."

Miles smiled blandly, "Astonishing I know."

Frank's grave expression returned, "We'll see. Anyway, I think you need to be debriefed." After that, the topic of conversation became rather more solemn and reserved, and there was no more talk of Harry; only another young colleague who, despite his faults, had given his life for the service yesterday.

* * *

Harry stared in bemusement at the little girl before him. He had only discovered yesterday that Miles had actually been married, and had a daughter, yet here he was today face to face with the child, after having her practically thrust towards him. He was aware that he was a junior officer, and had probably messed up yesterday's operation, thus leading to poor James' death, but did that mean his tasks had been reduced to child-minding? He had barely slept a wink all night; all he could think about was James falling down with the force of that bullet, his eyes lolling toward the sky as he breathed his last, never to see his parents, or his girlfriend again. Harry had barely known the man, but that did not make his death any easier to witness or contend with, and thus, he was not really in the mood for looking after a diminutive, seemingly silent little girl. Children in general were puzzling enough, let alone little girls. Having been an only child, Harry had to admit he did not really have any experience in talking to young children, and since he had attended an all-boys school, throughout his entire education, he had extra no experience with girls.

The girl was clearly Miles' daughter. She had the same shade of mousy brown hair, although she had these glistening blue eyes which he was sure, when she grew up, would entrance some potential suitors. These were not a feature of Miles, so Harry assumed she must have inherited he eye colour from her mother, or some other relative. She was small, but then Harry estimated she could only have been about five or six, perhaps seven at a stretch, and it was quite obvious she was just as uncomfortable as he was, as eventually she blanched and looked down at her feet shyly, clasping a battered book to her chest. After a few moments Harry concluded that the child was actually quite endearing; her shyness was sweet, and she looked as if she would rather sink into the ground rather than talk to anyone here other than her father. Sensing that he would have to make the first move here to communicate, Harry cleared his throat and said the first thing that came to him:

"Would you… like a drink of something?"

It was not exactly the most original line in the world, but Harry likened it to what he would say had he been talking to a young lady in a bar, and he thought it perfectly adequate for first introductions – particularly to a child who did not know him from Adam and would probably never see him again. The child raised her head slightly, but did not seem to be able to gather the courage to look all the way up. In a small voice she said, "My daddy said you should never take food or drink from strangers."

Harry nearly laughed out loud, because it sounded like such a Miles-like thing to say, and he could remember his mother once telling him the same thing back when he was this girl's age. "Right," he said, sensing that particular line of conversation was over. "Your daddy's probably right."

The girl stretched her mouth into a half smile, and Harry again noticed that with a smile like that, she would probably be having men queue around the corner of Miles' house when she was sixteen. Poor Miles, Harry thought, but then there was quite a long time to go until this diminutive little thing turned sixteen. He saw that the girl was turning redder and redder by the minute and so he searched for a way to progress the conversation. His eyes landed on the book clasped to her chest and suddenly he had an idea. He stretched out his hand towards her, startling her slightly so that she took a small step back and looked up at him in surprise.

"My name is Harry." He said, trying his best to smile, despite how drained he felt. "And I bet you're Ruth?"

The girl named Ruth looked finally looked up into his eyes in surprise, as if wondering how he knew her name. He decided to tell her before she began thinking he had some form of special powers. He nodded towards the cover of the book she held. Scrawled over the top in what was probably her best handwriting was the name 'Ruth Evershed'. "I saw your name on your book."

Ruth looked down at her book and after a few seconds a proper, glistening smile lit up her whole face; Harry knew he had won the battle. "See?" he said encouragingly. "Now we are not strangers. You know my name and I know your name."

Ruth continued to smile and Harry was just about to suggest getting her something to drink again when she spoke up for the first time in an adorable little voice, "But your name's not Harry."

Harry frowned, taken aback slightly, wondering why the little girl's grin was slowly becoming more mischievous by the second. "Why would you say that?" he asked her in light-hearted puzzlement. "Of course it is."

This time it was the girl who nodded towards _his_ chest, where a large ID badge hung off the lapel of his blazer, with the name entitled, 'Henry. J. Pearce.' "You're called Henry." She said pointing towards the badge.

A returned smile spread across Harry's face as he looked up from his badge to study the little girl properly this time. She was shy, he could tell that much, but this frontier hid a cleverness which was quite blatantly there, if you looked hard enough. This child was only five or six-years old and yet had he been in her situation, meeting a new person, it would not have even occurred to him to check that person's identity card.

"Ah," Harry said, nodding to her now. "Yes… I see what you mean. My proper name is Henry, but most people call me Harry. It's a nickname."

"But it's the same length as Henry?" Ruth questioned, clearly not trying to be clever or pick holes in what he was saying. She just seemed to be curious and thirsty to learn. Harry was prepared to bet she made a good student, although in this day and age, for girls, that perhaps was not a terribly good idea. "Don't you shorten the length of your real name for it to be a nickname?"

"Yes." Harry admitted, wondering when he had started giving grammar lessons to school children. "But sometimes, a nickname can also be a name you like better."

"So you like Harry better?" she asked, her gentle but curious personality blossoming now.

"Exactly."

She smiled shyly, "I like the name 'Harry'."

Harry gave a small chuckle back, "I'm glad you approve Mademoiselle. Now that we are not strangers, would you like a drink?"

Ruth's smile faltered slightly and she looked towards her father, but he was still in deep conversation with the tall, scary-looking man. Harry did not seem so scary, and so after a few seconds deliberation she nodded. Harry held out his hand and Ruth hesitantly took it, allowing herself to be led across the hustling and bustling room until they reached another small alcove which she had not noticed before over the heads of the masses of men. In essence, it was a door-less room which contained a basic stove, a large black kettle in which to heat eater on the stove, and a few tins of tea and coffee grains. Harry was no expert on children, but thinking back, he was quite sure he never drank tea or coffee when he was her age, and so he looked towards a miserable sink at the far corner of the alcove.

"Is water alright?" he asked, knowing that this sounded like a rather bland option. Then again, the secret service did not exactly cater for young children.

But Ruth nodded, smiling still, "Yes please."

Deciding that he might make himself some tea while he was at it, Harry filled the black kettle and heated it gently on the stove, before taking two mugs down from a single wooden shelf. It was only when he picked one of the chipped mugs up to fill with water for the girl when he noticed the hastily scrawled name intended into the rim of the mug – James. It only took the name James for the images of yesterday to flood back into the forefront of his mind; the temporarily happy mood he had just been in disappearing. He heard a faint clatter, but it did not register with him properly. It was only when he felt a tug on his sleeve that he withdrew himself from his trance-like state and looked down. Ruth was handing him a battered steel teaspoon which he guessed he must have accidentally dropped whilst he was deep in thought. He tried to shake those horrible images from his mind, and smile in thanks at the child but he could not quite bring himself to do so. Instead he just accepted the spoon off her, poured the now whistling kettle's contents into the mug of tea leaves and stirred methodically, trying to allow the concentric circles of the stirring to soothe him.

He turned round to fill the other mug when he noticed that the cup had disappeared from the grimy draining board, and Ruth had vanished from his side. Alarmed, he whirled round, only to see Ruth standing on tiptoe to reach the high sink, pouring herself water into the absent mug. Unable to deny himself a slight smile at this child's resourcefulness, Harry did so, and brought the cup entitled 'James' to his mouth, allowing the warm liquid to calm him.

"You're sad." Said a tiny little voice observantly, and Harry looked up to see little Ruth standing there, staring at him from the other side of the kitchen, holding onto the large mug with both hands in order to avoid dropping it. Harry was quite shocked by how inwardly mature this girl was; she was clever, and observant, and had just hit the nail on the head. When he was her age, he had still been obsessed with playing with his train set. Harry tried to think of something to say in reply, but it seemed his voice could not remember how to work. Instead, she produced an astoundingly kind, sympathetic smile. "My daddy was sad last night too." She took a long gulp of water before she continued, "He didn't think I noticed but his eyes were sad, and he was quiet."

Harry did not know whether it was because of this baffling little girl or whether it was because his mentor felt the same sadness he did, but he suddenly felt inexplicably a little bit better. He produced a sad smile, "A friend of mine and your daddy's d… I mean… left yesterday." He almost said 'died' but at her age, Harry was not sure whether death had been entirely explained to her yet. His question was soon answered.

She said quietly, if not a little sadly herself, "Did he die, like my mummy did?"

Harry's mouth opened and closed in astonishment at her bluntness, but perhaps this was what was so astounding about this girl. There were no secrets; she was open and honest and so unbelievably innocent that it was endearing. "Yes," he said slowly after a while. "Yes he did."

Ruth looked down towards her feet again shyly as she said quietly, "Daddy said that I'll always miss my mummy but with every day it'll get a little bit better." Slowly she looked up at him, as if nervous he was going to laugh at her, "M… maybe it'll be the same for your friend."

Harry did not quite know what to say to this; only that this girl spoke like she was sixty-six rather than a mere six years of age. So he just replied, "Your father's a wise man."

Deciding to turn the conversation away from death and grief, Harry's eyes dropped to the book she had been carrying, which was now stowed under her arm as she clutched the large, heavy mug. He nodded towards the battered book and said: "What is it you are reading?"

Ruth's eyes widened and she hastily reached up to the dirty draining board to put her heavy mug down, before attempting to conceal the book. "I… It's nothing – it's just a book."

"I know," Harry said, both smiling and frowning at this odd behaviour. A few minutes ago she had been so intriguing to talk to and now it was almost as if she was hiding her intelligence again. "I was wondering what it was called?"

Ruth again looked quite nervous, if not a little upset and Harry hastily wondered whether he should fetch Miles or stop pressuring her for the book's name. She was only a child after all. The one thing he did not need was a bawling six-year old on his hands. The girl fingered the book lightly between her fingers, and Harry was prepared to accept that she had clammed back, turning away to wash out his now empty mug in the sink before she said quietly and unexpectedly:

"Is it bad for a girl to want to work?"

Harry frowned and turned around confusedly, "What do you mean?" he asked gently.

"I don't think I can ask anyone else," she said quietly, playing with the hem of her coat sleeve. "because daddy might get angry again like he did at my teacher, Mrs Hampton, and… and I don't think many people like me a school."

Harry could not imagine anyone disliking this girl; she seemed the epitome of gentleness, cleverness and innocence all rolled into one, but then, he knew that there were always some children who loved to be mean to others. But he certainly could not imagine Miles getting angry. Granted, he had only been in the service, working alongside Miles for six months, but in his entire time there, he had never really seen Miles become cross or angry. Thus, he could not even contemplate Miles getting cross with his daughter for asking a question. "I'm sure Miles wouldn't get angry with you." Harry told her softly, giving her a reassuring smile. "For him to get angry at your teacher, I think it was probably her who did something wrong."

"But is it bad for a girl to… to want to make a difference… to want to work like a man does?"

Harry did not know quite what to say to this. He didn't actually agree with this himself, and he was now quite sure that if this girl's teacher had told her this, then this would almost certainly have been the reason for Miles' temper. However, in terms of the truth, the general consensus these days seemed to be that a woman could not work as well as a man at some things. For example, in the six months he had been here, he had not once seen a woman drifting round the marble corridors or around the office.

"At the moment," Harry said slowly, choosing his words very carefully. "some men think that women working the same jobs as they do is wrong. They think that men can do a better job than women can."

"Do _you_ think that?" Ruth asked him. Had it not been for her beseeching eyes, Harry might have refused to answer such a personal question, but instead he smiled and shook his head certainly:

"No I don't. I think that if women want to do something badly enough, they should try hard for it."

"So does that mean girls can still read books?" Ruth asked, her grip on her book slowly becoming less tense and more relaxed.

Harry chuckled slightly, "Yes of course. If you enjoy reading books, then you should read books."

That beautiful smile lit up the child's face again and she merely nodded happily in reply, "Thank you Harry." She replied sweetly and Harry could not help but return the smile.

"You're welcome." He nodded towards the book. "Does this mean I get to know what you're reading now?" he asked her encouragingly.

A little hesitantly, Ruth brought the front of the book round in her arms so that Harry could glimpse the title, and he began to smile.

"Ah," he said reminiscently, indicating the title which despite the battered cover still had some of the golden lettering which indicated the book had once been expensive, perhaps even an original first edition. "Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland. I remember reading that when I was small."

Ruth's expression suddenly turned both joyous and curious at the same time, "You… you read Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland?" she asked, obviously slightly disbelievingly.

"Yes," Harry nodded. "When I was a boy, of course. Somehow I don't think it would go down too well if I read it again now."

"But isn't…" Ruth asked, looking a little embarrassed. "Isn't it… a girl's book?" she finished quietly, lowering her eyes again.

Harry almost laughed aloud, but refrained because she looked so embarrassed saying it. Instead he said good-humouredly, "Now who is prejudiced about what boys and girls can and can't do?"

Ruth looked a little humiliated until she saw that Harry was actually smiling, and she returned the smile, albeit a little bashfully.

"What part are you up to?" he asked her politely, and he watched as her face became immediately animated with recalling the story.

"I've nearly finished it," she replied excitedly. "I'm at the last chapter where Alice is being called up at the trial."

Harry grinned back, an enigmatic expression on his face, "Well I won't spoil the ending for you then."

"Oh I've read it before." the girl answered, not cockily, but good-naturedly, as if reading it for the umpteenth time was the most exciting thing in the world. "But it's my favourite book, and I think you always get more out of something you read it again and again." A sad little look crossed over her face. "It was my mummy's book from when she was my age."

Harry thought he should have felt awkward talking to a six-year old about her late mother, but surprisingly, he was beginning to find it incredibly easy chatting to this child. He didn't know what it was… perhaps it was because she acting way above her age.

"Your mother was called Alice wasn't she?" he asked her kindly, and her face brightened again.

"Yes," she replied smiling softly. "I… I don't really remember her a lot, but daddy says that when she was just a bit older than me, she had thick blonde hair and blue eyes like Alice is supposed to in the story. He always said that she was the girl in the story – surprised by the world around her but never stopped fighting."

From the way Ruth closed her eyes in concentration when she said the last part of this sentence, Harry could tell that she was reiterating exactly the words Miles had uttered to her, and he thought it was sweet. It also arose the question how long Miles had known his wife; from what Ruth said, they seemed to have been childhood sweethearts. She then opened her eyes and smiled proudly at him, "Then her hair turned brown and daddy says I look just like her."

Harry stared at this child, today surrounded by such sorrow and grief following James' death, standing in the middle of a bustling work place, clutching her little book and a thought suddenly occurred to him: "You know Ruth," he said softly, bending his knees until he was level with her height. "I think you might just be your own Alice."

Ruth frowned curiously, "What do you mean?"

He gestured to the madness around them – the infuriating tapping of typewriters, the rows of men shouting to each other, and down the new expensive phones the department had purchased in recent months, the dull, windowless white walls and artificial lighting: "It may not be full of mysterious creatures, but in a way you're in your own sort of wonderland."

He could see in the girl's eyes the way the idea began to take hold in her mind; the way she really began to look at the workers around; the large, scary stone building. Harry suddenly had no idea why he had said that; it was just a metaphor that seemed to attach itself to his mind and wouldn't let go. For some reason, he desperately wanted to make this child, who despite all outward appearances, he could tell was a little unhappy – happy. Never in his life had he had to look after let alone talk to a child, and now here he was, chatting quite happily with her, and he still could not work out _why_.

"I can't be Alice," Ruth whispered quietly, looking around at this new 'wonderland'.

"Why not?" Harry asked gently.

"Because she's brave," she replied sadly. "Like my daddy – he's brave, and I bet you're brave."

Harry thought back to the way he reacted to James' death yesterday; the way he still began to shake slightly when he considered the details in-depth. He shook his head unhappily, "You'd be surprised how scared a grown man can be. We're not always brave."

Ruth flashed him a look in which he almost felt like she understood what he was thinking, even though he knew that was impossible: "I think you are." She said decisively.

Harry got to his feet and turned away, a little forlornly. "You don't know me though." He said quietly.

For about a minute there was silence, and Harry suddenly realised that his morose comment might have upset the child; from the fact that he could hear no sound, he began to realise that she could have wandered off. But when he whirled around again, Ruth was still standing there, staring at her feet, that book still clutched tight in her hand. She looked both downcast and thoughtful at the same time.

"You're right," she said with resumed brightness after a moment. "I don't know who you might be." Harry was just about to ask how loaded this comment was, again trying to deal with the fact that this girl was only six-years old, sounding sixty, when she added: "I think that my daddy's a bit like the White Rabbit with his 'I'm late!', because he's always late to pick me up from school," Harry looked at her, a small smile spreading across his face as she tried to compare everyone to a caricature in the story. She was utterly 'bonkers' (a word that the youths these days were occasionally uttering) but had a brilliant mind. "And I think that big, tall man who's talking to daddy is like the King of Hearts, because he looks important." She reeled off, before looking up at him. "But I can't decide who you might be like."

Harry laughed, "I look forward to your decision." He told her warmly.

Ruth looked thoughtful suddenly, "I don't know when I could let you know," she said, in all seriousness. "I'm supposed to be at school today but it was cancelled because of the trade unions." She took a good long look around the room again, taking in new aspects which she had not witnessed before, including the ceiling which had a small dome shape for the ceiling, reminding her of the bank which Miles often went to. "I've never been here before," the girl commented brightly. "Daddy only took me here today because old Mrs McDonald wouldn't take me."

"Who's Mrs McDonald?" Harry asked her amusedly.

"She's our next door neighbour." Ruth informed him, quite happily chatting away to this stranger now. She didn't know why, but he had the sort of vibe in which she knew she felt comfortable talking to him; he was so friendly and had what she classed as 'kind' eyes. "She's a widow – her husband died in the Great War, but she's really nice. She's a little deaf so sometimes she can't hear the door when someone knocks, but she lets me stay with her for a few hours when daddy needs to go somewhere."

Harry frowned. He had never really stopped to consider people with their lives outside this job. Although he had only been there six months, he had envisioned that each person simply woke up, went to work here or on an operation and then go home again (or not, as he realised with poor James yesterday). Not once had he thought that people might be married outside of the job, with children as well. He suddenly felt rather sorry for the girl, having only herself, her books and her deaf next door neighbour for company when Miles was away at frequent intervals. It could not be easy for either of them. Ruth however, did not seem to feel sorry for herself one bit as she added: "She has two lovely cats – the black and white one's called Mossy and the ginger tabby's called Tiger."

"Do you like cats?" Harry asked her, smiling at the young girl's enthusiasm.

"Oh yes," Ruth replied, her eyes shining. "They're lovely."

"I have a dog," Harry admitted. "Her name is Scarlett."

"Why did you name her Scarlett?" Ruth asked in interest, wondering why a dog would have such a peculiar name.

"I named her Scarlett," Harry said, grinning as he remembered his funny little spaniel. "Because she's absolutely shameless, very cheeky and often does naughty things, and although you can't really tell because of her white fur, you can sometimes make out a scarlet blush on her cheeks."

Ruth giggled quietly at the thought of this fun-loving little dog, which in turn, made Harry laugh slightly. Continuing on from their conversation before, he said pleasantly: "I'm sure you can let me know which character you decide to compare me to by writing it in a letter, and giving it to your father."

"Would you mind me writing to you?" Ruth asked in surprise; she had always felt like she was in the way of people, so for someone to actually give her permission to write to them, made her quite happy.

"Of course I wouldn't." Harry said honestly, having grown quite fond of this child in a mere hour or so. "It'll be interesting to see which character you decide on."

Ruth blushed slightly but nodded shyly, "Alright."

Just as she looked set to retreat into her shy little shell again, they both became aware of Miles reappearing from Frank's office, looking quite solemn, but happy to be reunited with his daughter. Harry watched a joyous grin spread over Ruth's face as her father approached the mini kitchen facilities and he too smiled when Miles entered the alcove.

"There you are, you little terror." Miles said fondly, ruffling Ruth's hair gently, to which she giggled and tried to straighten the now messy parts out. The older man turned to Harry, who could see his lightness was a little put on. Harry's heart suddenly hit the bottom again as he remembered that life must go on, and all that had happened the previous day. For a blissful hour, talking with the girl, Harry had forgotten all these troubles; Miles had not had that luxury. In fact, like himself, his mentor appeared rather tired. Still, he put on a brave face for Ruth. "She wasn't completely terrible was she Harry?" he asked the younger man, although not seriously for he knew his daughter wasn't a bad girl.

"No," Harry replied instantly, sharing a grin with Ruth, who smiled right back happily. "Not at all." He was surprised to discover that this was not just politeness; he had genuinely enjoyed conversing with the child.

"I'm sorry to have dumped her on you," Miles continued apologising, but Harry shook his head firmly.

"Really Miles," he said honestly, holding up a peaceful hand. "I don't mind."

Miles said nothing more but nodded gratefully to his protégée. Instead he looked down at his daughter who was gazing between the two men, and he had the impression that not only had she made quite an impression on Harry but also vice versa. "Guess what." He said, grinning down at his daughter.

"What?" Ruth questioned right back, and Harry could automatically sense the chatty, gentle, father-daughter bond.

"My boss – that tall man with the grey hair and spectacles over there," he said, indicating Frank who was hunched over his desk writing up some report or other. "has given us permission to go home early because they don't desperately need me today."

Harry rather suspected that this was not the reason at all; more so that Frank could not risk for security reasons, or his sanity, having a child loitering around the office. He had only known his boss for a matter of months, and although the man was fair and often considerate, he was not a big fan of children. Then again, Harry thought, neither was he, and yet he had gotten on so well with Miles' daughter.

Ruth however, in reaction to Miles' comment let out a small, "Yay!", and Harry began to glimpse the child in her again. It was as if father and daughter were reverting back to who they felt comfortable being around each other. Ruth felt she had to be more child-like in order to make her father happy, whilst hiding this – by all appearances – brilliant mind, and Miles thought he had to be brave and light-hearted around her. It seemed to work however, and Harry observed they were, despite the abnormality of Miles' profession, a very happy family.

So with that, Miles nodded his thanks to Harry again, exchanged goodbyes with him for the night, and took hold of Ruth's hand. They turned away, beginning to walk out from under the kitchen-alcove when Harry called quietly after Ruth: "Goodbye Alice! Let me know who I am."

Ruth turned around, frowning for a moment before she remembered what he meant, and she flashed him a big, bright grin over her shoulder. Miles was at a loss as to what was going on, and made a note to ask Ruth later. For now however, he could see the happy look on his daughter's face and decided not to question it. He suspected that she could tell he had been unhappy last night, and thus it had made her sad; Harry seemed to have cheered her up considerably and he was not going too complain about that. So Harry watched as hand in hand, father and daughter exited the office and descended the wooden staircase, each with different thoughts. They had one factor in common however – perhaps they would visit a bookshop on the way home.

**Hopefully people will get the title better now. Sorry if people thought the Alice in Wonderland comparisons to Ruth in this brand new world were a bit wierd, but this was my starting point for the story, so it kind of had to stay in. Hope people liked this better. If not, leave a review and let me know how you want me to improve it, or just tell me what you think in general. :)**


	3. The Price of Nonchalance

**Thank you for all the great reviews and I hope this is getting better and that you're getting more used to the twist. I am afraid that Ruth will be young for a little bit longer because of plans, and it would be a shame to cheapen the story by skipping so quickly ahead. However, I do promise you that there is some (hopefully) gritty stuff ahead, and everything shall change for Harry and Ruth. And I thought it was about time I mixed in a character from the proper series (1929 style). Please review and let me know what you think; again, if there are any aspects you want me to change, or if there are any historical factors you disagree with. I've undertaken thorough research but some stuff might be invalid - please let me know if you think it is.**

Two years passed since the meeting between Harry, Miles' protégé and Ruth, his daughter, during which Ruth kept her promise and wrote the young man several letters, each one wishing him well but informing him that she had not yet decided who he might be in their little re-make of Alice in Wonderland. Despite this however, Miles could see that Harry had most surprisingly made a great impact on his daughter, and he suspected this was the same for Harry. Harry had worked for the security services for over two years now and even Miles could see the same detrimental effect it had on everyone, starting to take a hold of him. In a way, although he had undergone some army training and constant fitness tests before being appointed to MI5, Harry had been fast-tracked through these courses just like many others, and so he came quite unprepared for the things he saw each day. Miles could see that James' death had been the cornerstone of this new way of looking at life; the only thought Harry could relatively comfort himself with as he saw more people die each day, was that he had not needed or been ordered to kill yet. Miles was not exactly sure how the twenty-five year old would handle this when the task inevitably came, but despite the haunting situations that came each day, Harry was always professional, and Miles was confident that Harry would be no less so when the time came. Even Frank, who had been suspicious of the young man at first, had come to see Miles' way of argument that Harry was a good man and a potentially standout operative. On frequent occasions, Frank even sought Harry's opinion on matters, and if there was a truly dangerous undercover operation, he would always choose his two most trusted officers – Miles and Harry. Harry had not seen the state of things during the Great War as Frank and Miles had – Frank as Chief of Intelligence for the section, and Miles as a troop on the front line, but he had a fierce loyalty and wisdom; a glimpse of goodness in the new generation. Frank, albeit secretly, thought that Harry might one day make a good Section Head.

For Harry, each operation he undertook with Miles only served to cause him to admire the older man more. Miles had clearly seen some terrible things, and considering his line of work, plus the fact that he had served as a soldier during the Great War must have meant he had killed many people, and yet he was still that same fair-minded, idealistic, good man. Harry had worried briefly that Miles might be a little suspicious of the strange friendship he had struck up with Ruth, but on the contrary, he had not minded at all. Harry himself could not explain why he felt years younger and so much lighter whenever Miles handed him a letter from Ruth; he eventually conceded that maybe it was because she was so young and naïve – that her perceptions of the world were refreshing, especially after a particularly tough day.

The months continued to pass by. The economy was falling to pieces; even the great United States of America had fallen ill-fatedly into a great depression, and although money problems in England were not as extreme, times were not as luxurious as they had been in the past. There was a great deal of discontent, and thus that meant an increasing number of protests and attacks which the service was sent to prevent and stop. Having noticed his slow rise to an accepted member of the inner circle of Frank's section, he had been present in meetings detailing the increasing discontent of Germany. Apparently, they were not happy with their lot, and were not taking kindly to the various treaties that were being thrust upon them, including the large sum of gold marks which were being demanded by both Britain and France. Frank had tried to convey to the politicians involved in the international proceedings that the discontent of Germany would only be made worse by these increasing pressures, but of course, he had not been senior enough for them to take a blind bit of notice. Frank had muttered something mildly abusive about 'aristocratic politicians' before moving onto other matters.

Changes to the section were also continually being made over the passing months, and Harry was no longer the new boy. Not long after James had left, his position had been filled by a man called Simon Brown, who was apparently the son of an aristocratic politician very high up in the government. He was the same age as Harry; tall with sleek brown hair and bright green eyes, very strong, often cruel opinions, and a lady's man in every sense of the word. Frank had been reluctant to take him into the fold, in fact, both Harry and Miles suspected that he secretly hated having him there, but he had been given no other choice. His father had connections that not only installed him into the section (which gave the government inside knowledge of the goings-on of the department), but Simon had also superseded all of the required army and fitness training regimes. He was very loud-mouthed and not afraid to voice his opinion, which was often racist, prejudiced and abusive to all kinds of people; not to mention his views that children should be seen and not heard, and women should be kept for the home. Harry had thought vaguely that Ruth really would not like this man, and he could always tell Miles was thinking the same thing. Miles it seemed, despite his fair-mindedness and mildness, had no patience for men like this, and was constantly short with Simon. Not that Simon cared. He never did. Harry had confronted Miles about this one time and his mentor had replied tiredly and a little bitterly that whilst he and people like him had been out fighting in the war, Simon (who would have been a boy at the time) and his father would have been sponging off the war, benefitting from it.

However, the changes were not all bad. Harry's main friend in the section, and in general, had come about a year into the job, in the form of Malcolm Wynn-Jones. As one could probably have guessed from his name, he descended from a Welsh heritage, although Harry was not sure he had ever met anyone quite so English. He spoke with an English accent, having been brought up in Oxfordshire since he was four years old, and he was very, very clever. Having been brought in as a general assistant to the architecture of operations, he also handled the technical side of things, such as new gadgets, and he was able to decipher any plans or intelligence the section received with regards to German industry. Not only that but Harry sometimes amusedly and often in frustration, watched the man quote William Shakespeare off the top of his head, applying it to the most separate of situations. Harry suspected that Ruth would quite like Malcolm. However, for all these brains, the man had very few social skills. In his own way, he was quite shy, and would be far more content tinkering with his gadgets and looking through papers than socialising with friends of colleagues. Harry was glad that he was the exception. Malcolm was a couple of years older than him, but they found companionship in each other. Unlike Simon, who would sneer whenever Miles handed him the latest letter from Ruth, Malcolm would smile knowingly but never demand the letter's contents. He knew it was private.

Miles liked Malcolm very much, however he did not work with the man as much as he worked with Harry because they were field operatives and Malcolm was a desk officer. Plus, when Harry stayed later at work to complete paperwork and socialise with Malcolm, he always had to rush off to pick Ruth up from school. In a way it was good that Harry and Ruth got on so well, because Miles now felt more comfortable in talking about his daughter to someone. Officially, it was not the done thing to talk about family life at work, but he was becoming increasingly proud of his daughter, and Harry would always be a patient and listener. So generally, Harry would spend the day with Miles and the night with Malcolm.

So that day, two years later started off relatively normally, or at least as normally as could be expected in their kind of work. Although times were not great and his salary was not exactly large, Harry had been able to afford a car, which allowed him to save his energy for the workplace, rather than walking to and from work, an hour each way. Miles lived closer and so preferred to walk; aside from anything, he did not at all seem to desire a motorcar and preferred to spend his money on books. Harry just knew that Ruth would not complain one bit about this, because she shared the same passion for books as her father. In fact, had Miles not joined the army and following that, the service, Harry was sure that the older man would have made a wonderful bookseller. Then again, maybe not; he would probably absorb himself so much in a book that he would not notice the queue of customers lining halfway down the high street.

So Harry was in th same routine as any other day, parking his car neatly by the roadside, and entering the building, climbing all the way up the varnished wooden staircase to the current Section D office. It was the same as ever – just a few more telephones and typewriters which the service had bought as luxuries before the economic crash really hit. Upon entering the office, he slipped his long black coat off and hung it on one of the many coat stands beside the door, before heading towards his corner of the room. Along the way he saw Malcolm tinkering away, repairing some careless person's typewriter. Harry did not need his spook skills in order to guess whom the device belonged to, as Simon sat nonchalantly at his desk, feet up, head reclined with no typewriter in front of him. His stack of morning paperwork lay, as per usual, untouched on his desk. He would probably give that to Malcolm to complete after the poor man had finished mending his typewriter. Malcolm of course would agree, because he was kind-hearted and knew that if he did not do the paperwork, then it wouldn't get done, and then somewhere in the system, there would be a whole which without attention would grow larger and larger with time. That was Malcolm – a perfectionist.

"Good morning Malcolm." Harry said pointedly, showing respect towards his friend, but not even bothering to greet Simon. Malcolm smiled back in reply before continuing with his work and Simon, who had been looking with superiority round the room, noticed that he had been ignored and turned to glare at Harry.

"Good morning to you too _Henry_." He drawled, making sure he emphasised the name 'Henry', because he knew his colleague hated it.

Harry did not rise to the bait, but instead sat down at his desk opposite Simon's and began sifting through his own stack of morning paperwork. Simon however, did not look like he had finished taunting him, and he leaned forwards on his desk.

"You know it is very rude not to greet your fellow colleague, _Henry_." Simon sneered. "Perhaps I should tell my father that some of the people I work with are complete ignoramuses-"

Harry, who had heard enough childishness for one morning said, without looking up from his paperwork, "Or perhaps you should tell your father that you're a good-for-nothing, snooty, upper-class twit who acts like a schoolboy because he runs to daddy when he doesn't get his own way. And while you're at it, why don't you inform him you want a change in careers because I've noticed, and I'm sure many other people here have as well, that you don't actually _do_ anything."

Simon's face had turned a particularly curious shade of beetroot, and he looked as if he would rather like to hit Harry, however his mouth just opened and closed silently, as if searching for some retaliating reply. He apparently could not find one because he had to resort to picking on other people, such as Malcolm who had snickered briefly at Harry's smart reply.

"Be quiet Wynn-Jones," he snapped, his ears glowing bright red. "Our business is not of your concern."

Harry simply shook his head, but carried on with his paperwork. After about half an hour, a messenger who could only have been about seventeen scurried through the door, staring at the ground meekly and hovering around Frank's office until the man himself appeared. The two were engaged for a moment in inaudible conversation before Frank nodded, signed a piece of paper that was handed to him, and the boy scurried away again. Harry, who was no longer in silent awe of Frank, asked his boss before he could disappear back into his alcove:

"What was that all about sir?"

Frank, who in turn, now had a deep respect for Harry deigned to reply, "A man from the Home Office has come to check our files in the storage room; to make sure they're all up to date, present and correct… that sort of thing."

Harry nodded in reply, before returning to his work. Frank however did not retreat back in to his alcove; instead he had noticed that Simon was simply lounging unceremoniously in his chair, and turned to glare at him. Like Harry and Miles, he had absolutely no time for Simon and his lazy, over-privileged lifestyle. Once, Simon had told anyone who would listen about the time he had 'cleverly' got his governess sacked because she read the household books without permission, and Frank had ended up throwing a piece of chalk from the operations board at his head. This was most out of character for the older section head, but it was just an example of how much Simon frustrated them all.

"Brown," Frank snapped shortly, and Simon immediately brought his feet down from his desk and sat bolt upright in his chair, because he had been caught. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Nothing sir." Simon replied hastily, before realising the truth in his words.

"Yes, I can see that," Frank replied in annoyance. "If you're going to lounge about under our feet all day, could you at least do something worthwhile?"

"My typewriter's broken sir." Simon began lamely.

"Then may I suggest you use an interesting invention called a pen and ink?" Frank snapped back.

"I type all of my reports sir." Simon answered stubbornly. They all knew why this was – because writing would take up too much of his time and energy. Harry had not yet been on an operation with Simon, and nor had Miles, for which they were both very thankful. He could not imagine a worse partner in the hands of which you would inevitably place your life.

"Oh for goodness' sake Brown," Frank huffed angrily. "Are you a grown man or a child? Are you sure you want to be here rather than playing hopscotch with the street children outside or hugging a tree?"

Harry bent further over his paperwork so that no one could see the smirk that slid over his face at Frank's analogies. Completely at a loss over what to do with his hopeless subordinate, Frank growled to Simon, "So you do not waste an entire day, may I suggest that you stroll on down to the file storage room to aid and observe our guest from the Home Office?"

Although he said 'may I suggest', it was quite clear to all in the room that Simon had no choice in the matter. It was a dull and boring task, but there was nothing else to do with the man. They could not force him to work, and they could not give him his notice because his father simply would not allow it. This unfortunately meant that Simon Brown could be with MI5's D branch for a very long time. Simon however, knew when he had lost a battle and so grumpily, he rose from his chair and walked with as much dignity as he could muster, towards the door and down the staircase to the file registry. Frank shook his head in despair before taking one last eagle-eyed glance around his section, and stepping back into his office-alcove.

"Simon should think himself lucky," Malcolm sighed, and Harry once again looked up from his paperwork.

"What do you mean?"

Malcolm turned the typewriter in front of him the right way up again, and touched one of the keys lightly. It made the correct clicking noise, and he looked up triumphantly, "I've finished fixing his typewriter."

Harry grinned at his friend, shook his head, and returned to work.

* * *

Miles was stirred from his early morning slumber by the usual method. Ruth was shaking his arm lightly, just as she did every morning, informing him that it was 'time to get up'. Miles allowed himself a few blissful seconds of shut-eye before he opened his eyes and stared at his daughter. She of course was already up and ready in her dull grey school dress and cardigan, her shoulder-length brown hair tied neatly back with an elastic band and ribbon. He, as per usual, was still half-dressed in yesterday's clothes; his shirt crumpled and mostly unbuttoned, revealing the vest underneath, his trousers equally untidy and he lay with only one sock on. He had slept quite fitfully – again, not unusual – because he always did, and had done ever since Alice had died six years previously.

Ruth was quite the mother of the household, even though she was only eight. She was growing by the day, and Miles insisted that she grew as beautiful as her mother with each minute. She still had that same passion, almost an obsession, with learning and reading, and he could already tell that this would never cease. She was born to do something brilliant – he just knew it. Even domestically, she was incredible. Miles had a terrible sense of timing and it was always Ruth who woke him up in the mornings; she always rose at the exact time of six o'clock. Then again, she did go to sleep at a sensible time, whilst he would stay up after storytelling time to drink several large glasses of whatever alcoholic source he could find. Storytelling time was their favourite moment of the day, or rather, night. It would consist firstly of him reading Alice in Wonderland to her, as had been routine since she was a toddler, because it was her favourite book. Then she would read him an extract of her latest literary conquest. Of late it had been Charles Dickens' 'David Copperfield'. Her reading choices far exceeded her age, but it only served to confirm privately to Miles just how incredibly clever she was. So much so, despite the complaints of Mrs Hampton, she had been moved up to the seniors class a year early, and she was now taught by a lovely young woman called Miss Stanley, who wholly encouraged Ruth's enthusiasm. At least it gave Miles hope for the teachers of this new generation.

Miles rubbed his eyes tiredly and mumbled something incoherent. Once Ruth was satisfied that her father was up and about, she trailed out of the room, heading in the direction of their kitchen. Miles passed a hand once more over his eyes before he rid himself of sleepiness and looked at the clock on the wall. It was seven o'clock which meant he was running late, so he had not got time for a quick bath before work. Instead he contented himself with splashing water on his face briefly from the sink in the corner of the bedroom, before getting changed into fresh clothes, which had been removed from his wardrobe and hung over the rails of the bed. Again, this was Ruth's thoughtful doing. She knew his system inside and out in the mornings, and knew that he would inevitably be so tired that he probably would not find a matching suit and trousers, so she generally picked the outfit out for him. Miles changed quickly, flinging on a matching tie and tying his shoes before moving through the house to join his daughter in the kitchen.

As he entered the room, the whiff of porridge hit his nose, and he smiled. Ruth had recently taken to not only waking him in the mornings but also making them breakfast. At first it had astounded him, but now it just made him smile. Ruth was already there, spooning porridge into her mouth while her eyes drifted across the illustrations of Alice in Wonderland for about the millionth time. Next to her, a place was already set with a spoon, mat and bowl of porridge. Mile's smile widened and he approached the table, kissing the top of Ruth's head before he sat down. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning daddy." Ruth replied softly, looking up from her book. "I made porridge."

Miles smiled at her and tasted the porridge, "Yes I can see that." He made an exaggerated 'perfect' gesture with his hand and she giggled slightly.

It hit him suddenly that he had not remembered to make her some sandwiches for school lunches the night before, and he was about to voice this when she replied, as if reading his guilty expression and mind. "I made sandwiches for lunch."

Miles smiled again, shaking his head in amusement, "Of course you did." He could not help but feel both guilty and helpless. His little girl was having to grow up so fast because he was a hopeless father. And still, she never got angry or berated him; she just continued to stare at him in adoration, and sometimes he just could not stand it. "You're not going to need me for very much longer are you?" he asked her, half joking, but with an element of solemn sadness. "You're getting to be able to look after yourself."

Ruth stared at him in surprise and horror, as if trying to work out if he was angry at her for making breakfast and sandwiches. Of course she still needed him. She loved him – he was her daddy, and she could not imagine a life without him. Ruth could not manage to work out what to say in order to express this. Miles could see how unhappy his comment had made her, and he quickly uprooted her from her chair, lifting her onto his lap and kissing her forehead repeatedly.

"I'm sorry my love, I'm sorry." He whispered softly. "Of course you need me. And I'm going to be around for a very, very long time yet."

"Do you promise?" Ruth asked, although she was intelligent enough to know that he could not really promise such a thing.

Miles hesitated, which was the tell-tale sign that she was right, but he nodded and said swiftly, "I promise."

Ruth pretended not to notice the hesitation and nodded in satisfaction, leaning against her father's shoulder for a moment. Miles kept a hold of her with one hand and ate his porridge with the other. After a few minutes, he finished up his porridge and Ruth made to clamber off his lap and wash the two bowls up, but he shook his head firmly.

"No," he said, as she climbed off him and onto the floor. "I shall wash these up like the responsible adult that I am supposed to be, and you make sure you have packed everything into your satchel."

Ruth nodded obediently and ran to her bedroom to check her books. Miles busied himself with cleaning two spoons and bowls, marvelling again at how fast his daughter was growing up.

* * *

Harry was still bent over his paperwork when Frank swore loudly over the telephone in his office, much to everyone's shock. He looked up just in time too see his boss slam down the receiver and hurry out into the main body of the room. Harry was the first person he spotted and so he positively ran over to him, his face as white as a sheet. Harry courteously stood to meet him and Frank muttered urgently:

"Jimmy O'Callaghan has escaped from a high security holding unit."

"He's what?!" Harry exclaimed furiously, quite forgetting that he was shouting in the face of his boss, and he was only a junior officer.

"Jimmy O'Callaghan escaped in the early hours of this morning." Frank repeated, not caring in the slightest that Harry was yelling at him. On the contrary, the younger man's emotions were only mirroring how he felt himself.

"How?" Harry demanded.

"They think one of the holding unit's guard's was helping him. He was Irish – O'Callaghan probably convinced him he was helping fight for the cause. Of course, that guard is now lying dead in a concrete room."

Harry swallowed, trying to get the images of James falling to the floor dead, out of his mind. He tried to formulate his thoughts into some sort of order, and suddenly a dreading thought hit him. "Where's Miles?" he asked, searching around the room desperately, even though he knew really that his mentor had not logged in for work yet.

"What?" Frank asked confusedly.

"Where's Miles?" Harry repeated urgently.

"He is still at home in all probability," Frank shrugged, apparently not catching onto Harry's reasoning. "Or taking his daughter to school."

"Oh God," Harry whispered, his thoughts turning horribly to the words he had heard Jimmy O'Callaghan hiss the day he was caught, and his brother was killed.

"What?" Frank demanded. "Why?"

"O'Callaghan said to Miles that he held him responsible for the death of his brother."

"That's ridiculous." Frank said dismissively. "James killed Tommy, not Miles."

"Yes, but Jimmy was preparing for a very long jail sentence. For securing the death of a security services officer and for stealing intelligence plans, he was almost hung. It was a miracle that he wasn't, but of course, that would have meant poor relations with the Irish."

"And relations with the Irish have been getting better." Frank tried to justify.

"Yes but the problem is," Harry said desperately. "that with Jimmy facing a long prison sentence, what would he do for that length of time except harbour a grudge for someone he felt was partly responsible for the death of his brother? I went to fetch backup but Miles was with Jimmy for a long time before help arrived. So Jimmy might only remember Miles."

"So what are you insinuating here?" Frank said slowly, frowning at Harry over his spectacles. "That Jimmy 'Callaghan has escaped from a high security prison unit to kill Miles, in revenge for Tommy's death?"

Harry gulped and nodded, "Yes." His heart suddenly turned cold. "And not just Miles."

"The girl too?" Frank asked in shock.

"I wouldn't put it past him." Harry said fearfully, thinking of that sweet, innocent young girl. "Sir, we have got to telephone Miles to warn him."

"Miles does not have a telephone," Frank said, looking very grave and serious, also beginning to fear for his friend's and the little girl's life.

"Then I have got to get to Miles' house." Harry said, heading towards the door.

"Wait Harry," Frank said sharply. "This is ridiculous. O'Callaghan could not possibly know where Miles lives. He would not have had time to get his hands on such intelligence."

At that moment, Malcolm came dashing in through the office door, having just been down to the lower levels to repair someone else's typewriter, looking quite puzzled and worried. Frowning, he noticed Harry and Frank standing huddled together and he approached them with haste. He opened his mouth to speak, but Frank held out a hand to stop him, his eyes never leaving Harry's concerned face.

"Not now, unless it is a matter of life or death, which our situation might well be."

Malcolm swallowed, not used to speaking directly to the head of section but he summoned his courage and said strongly, "I do not know about life or death but it is quite important."

"What is it?" Harry asked immediately. Had something already happened to Miles and Ruth? Please God, no.

"Did I imagine it earlier or did we have a guest from the Home Office to check through our files?"

"What?" Frank muttered, clearly hassled and unimpressed by this interruption. "Yes – is this really relevant?"

"But… downstairs sir, there is a representative from the Home Office to check our filing system and personnel files are up to date."

"Two in the same day?" Frank asked, now also a little puzzled.

"No sir," Malcolm said seriously. "He said he knows nothing about the man who came earlier this morning. In fact, they never start work until eight o'clock."

"So… who was the man we let in?" Frank asked, blanching as he remembered signing that damn piece of paper to allow the so-called representative admittance into the storage rooms.

Harry's heart plummeted what felt like a thousand feet. "Malcolm," he said, trying his best to remain calm. "Did you say that in the storage room there are files on personnel? The people who work here?"

"Y…Yes." Malcolm said, not knowing where Harry was going with this particular piece of information.

Frank, it seemed however, was catching onto the same wavelength as Harry's and he turned chalk white. "It… it can't be." For the first time in his life, Frank Longford sounded uncertain of himself; scared even and that was an emotion that shook Harry even further. Not this… please not this.

Harry practically emptied all the contents of files in his desk drawers onto the floor, scrabbling around for one certain file; one file he had not been able to let go of since James' death and finally he came across it. The report he had written up following that terrible day. He flipped open the file and came face to face with a photograph of a Jimmy O'Callaghan himself. He cast the rest of the report to the side, taking just the photograph with him before he strode quickly over Simon, who had resumed lounging in his chair. Harry thrust the photograph of O'Callaghan into the other man's face and said savagely:

"Is this the man who you supervised in the registry this morning?"

Simon nearly toppled off his chair when confronted with the fierce-looking expression on Harry's face. "W…What?" he stammered.

"Yes or no?" Harry growled, furious that O'Callaghan may have been able to get in and out of MI5 without a hitch. They could have practically handed Miles' details to the man on a silver platter.

Simon forced himself to focus on the picture before swallowing, "Yes. Why?"

"Oh God." Frank muttered, running a hand down his face. That piece of paper he had signed could have practically been Miles' death warrant.

"Did he remove any of the files from the registry?" Harry snapped.

"Yes."

"You allowed him to take files from the registry?" Frank yelled. "Files of such confidentiality are forbidden to leave this building."

"Well I didn't know that." Simon shrugged, although from the expression on his face, he was beginning to realise that he had done something very stupid indeed.

"Of course you didn't know that," Harry bellowed, losing control completely. "You never bloody pay attention! And now a good man and his eight year old daughter could die because of you!"

"Harry, this is not doing anyone any favours." Malcolm pointed out, placing a soothing hand on his friend's shoulder. Harry took a few moments to breathe out his anger before, returning to his desk, pulling out his pistol and heading towards the door, shouting over his shoulder to Frank:

"I'm going to Miles'! Call back-up."

For once, Frank did not even mind that his subordinate had just given him orders. Instead he hurried to the nearest telephone which was on Simon's desk and dialled the correct number. Malcolm looked as if he did not quite know what to do with himself and Simon appeared fused to his seat. When confronted with danger, as Harry and Miles had predicted, he was completely hopeless.

**Oh dear! Any guesses as to what's going to happen? I'll try not to leave it too long between updates if people really want to know more. I apologise for the lack of updates of All We Were and All We Are - I have a chapter mostly written, but it's very action/political and not much HR at the moment and people seem to want HR. HR fluff is definitely coming - just not in that particular chapter at the moment, so it needs a slight re-working. Any reviews on this chapter for Finding Alice would be most welcome. Please. :)**


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